


A Finale

by BristlingBassoon



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: HIV/AIDS Crisis, Las Vegas, M/M, Sad feelings, Season 3, Sex, Sex Worker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: Bash learns to talk about things for once.





	A Finale

He can’t help it. He goes to see him again.

The bubbling humiliation and shock he felt when Sandy gestured towards Joe, and told him that he was Paul, and he was - well, of course a maintenance man wouldn’t be wearing a suit at the bar, how _stupid_ could he have been - it plummets away when he sees him again, again, at the bar, again, in that suit. Bash knows a suit when he sees one and he knows for sure that this man probably only has one of them.

  
Paul is in animated conversation with one of the bar staff, but as if through some kind of intuition, he looks up when Bash inches cautiously to the opposite side of the bar. His eyebrow shifts, the subtlest of questions. Before Bash can see what he’s done, he’s smoothy left the conversation and he’s there, at Bash’s side, not looking at him, but putting his drink down on the bar. Condensation slides off the glass and leaves the drink skidding slightly on the cold, wet marble.

“Would you like me to join you?” Paul says nonchalantly. Bash doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Wrings them sweatily in his lap.

“Upstairs?”

Bash nods.

Rhonda’s out, thankfully. At a friend’s birthday party. One of the girls - he can’t remember which one, he’s been preoccupied to put it mildly. They’re going out on the strip and he’s sure she won’t be back until the smaller hours.

The moment with Paul feels fragile, as if it might shatter if he makes the wrong move. But if Paul’s confused about, well, _everything_, he doesn’t show it. Just takes his jacket off and sits down on the sofa, feet up on the glass table. His shoes are shined, pants pressed, every inch of him made to look at.

Bash wordlessly pours Paul another drink, and himself three fingers of whiskey. He tries to cool his hands on the glass of the bottle before delivering the drink and sitting down opposite Paul, looking at him and trying not to. He wishes he could go over and kiss him, but it somehow seems harder than last time, because this is something he’s arranged, rather than fallen into the midst of. He so wants to kiss him.

“Do you know what you’d like?” Paul asks.

Bash splutters. “What do you, uh -“

“Well, you can pay me for the act, or for the night. I usually charge 150 for oral, 200 for full service, but it’s 250 if you want to top me.”

Paul starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Top you?” Bash says, reddening.

“Yeah, you know, if you want to fuck me.”

It’s somehow scarier to have it all in words. Much better to have it play out mutely, to pretend you didn’t really have a say in it.

“Of course, we can take it a little slower if you want, and just charge for the night-“ Paul says, but stops, when Bash kisses him.

It feels so right, having Paul’s hand on his face, that strong, squarish, manly hand, the wedding ring - what a joke - metal against his cheek, and then fingers in his hair, holding his head as Paul just keeps kissing back. No pulling away, nothing else yet, just the warmth of his mouth against his. Of course, this isn’t the first time, and when it’s just kissing, that’s ok, somehow. Easier to say it didn’t happen.

So far, Bash’s experience has been made up entirely of things that didn’t happen. When Florian kissed him the first time, as teenagers. When they masturbated together, pretending to look at a magazine instead of each other. His head, resting against Florian’s chest, hearing his heart thunder. Florian smiling at him, breathless, his sweat cooling on Bash’s face. Florian, kneeling before him and sucking him off, and Bash, eyes clenched tight, hands twisted in Florian’s hair, moaning, knowing if he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend that this was just a substitute for something else, instead of the thing he really wanted.

Some days he thinks his mother’s approval is worth everything. Sometimes, when he kissed Florian, or called the hospitals when he disappeared, or sent a bunch of flowers anonymously to his funeral, it’s worth nothing. Nothing at all.

But none of that really happened, so it’s fine.

Why is he trying to make things happen again when he knows he’ll just have to pretend they never did?

They’re on the bed now, Paul tugging off Bash’s pants, his hand on top of his underwear, _inside _his underwear oh God, yes, that’s it, that’s definitely a man’s hand on his cock, and not his own, and he wants more of it. He wants more than just that.

“Fuck me,” he manages to gasp. Paul stops kissing his jawline for a moment.

“You sure?”

Bash nods. Paul pulls his hand free of Bash’s cock, and considers logistics.

“Do you want to be on your front or your back?”

Christ, do they have to talk about it? It seems somehow worse to have to discuss things, especially as something embarrassing as this. Shouldn’t it just happen?

“You decide,” Bash says hurriedly.

“No, I don’t decide,” Paul replies. “You’re my client, you decide.”

“Well which would you - uh, recommend? Jesus.” Bash says, covering his face with his hands, as if not seeing Paul is going to make it better. Maybe it would make it better. “Fine. On my front then. From behind. Just - let’s not talk about it any longer, Ok?”

He rolls over, and feels Paul pull down everything. Pants, underwear, socks - thank god, somehow having sex with socks on would be more embarrassing. He lets himself just enjoy the feeling of Paul’s hands brushing against his buttocks while he tugs down his underwear. Eyes closed now.

“Is it going to hurt?”

“Not if you relax,” says Paul. “I can tell you what I’m doing if that’ll help.”

“No! Don’t!” he cries out in frustration. He didn’t know sex could be such a logistical exercise, a business transaction where they negotiate deals. Wait. This is literally a business transaction. Don’t overthink it, Bash. Just let it happen. Just like when you’re having sex with Rhonda.

He feels Paul rubbing his shoulders and the small of his back, and then his buttocks and thighs. He’s surprised at how pleasant it feels. Then, there’s the shock of Paul parting his buttocks and working at him with something greasy, some kind of lubricant. He yelps, and Paul stops for a moment.

“Ok?”

“Yep. Fine. Keep going.”

He wonders what it would have been like to have Florian do this.

He feels something go inside him. Is it - no, it’s just a finger, and it’s moving in him, touching him in a place that feels strange and warm and exciting and makes his cock so goddamn hard he thinks he’s going to splatter right into the sheets right there, but it feels just weird enough that he can’t finish just yet, and he’s not sure if he can take any more than just a finger, or - is it two now? He moans.

When Paul finally enters him, it’s bright and hot and slightly painful, a full feeling he can barely take. More lubricant, and then he’s feeling more than he thought he would feel, both outside and inside him. Paul’s hands are on his hips, and he’s moving inside him, and Bash is moaning and trembling, moving himself against Paul, and the strength of it, the rubbing of his cock against those silk sheets, how he’s being fucked, god, he’s being _fucked_, how did he agree to this, how is this happening -

He comes, and it’s as if he can see with his eyes closed.

Paul’s washing up in the bathroom now. He left quietly enough, leaving Bash spread on the bed, burying his face in the pillow. Thinking about the maid service, who hopefully has seen enough stained sheets to not think anything of it. It is Vegas, after all.

Well, that’s it. Was he supposed to leave money on the nightstand, or was Paul going to invoice him? He laughs at the absurdity of a carbon copy filed away in some accountant’s office documenting transactions for sexual services. That’s one way of making a record.

Bash sits up and puts on his robe. Walks to the minibar again. He’s only halfway across the room, picking his way over the discarded clothes and shoes, when Paul walks out of the bathroom, and Bash starts to cry.

He doesn’t leave, and Bash is surprised that he doesn’t. Why would he stick around for any of this crap, this snotty, crumpled-tissue crap, comforting some idiot who’s crying onto his chest, sucking in big, heaving gasps of air and making watery, incoherent sounds, who can’t figure out if this is sadness or relief or regret or fear that’s making him like this. That’s what friends are for. Wives. It’s not something other men are supposed to see. He never let Florian see him cry. Always went into the bathroom and turned on the radio.

Of course, Florian’s gone, and now the one who’s getting to see him cry is a literal Vegas hooker. What a joke.

Paul gently disentangles himself and refills his whiskey glass with water, just bathroom water from the tap, not seltzer from the minibar. Bash drinks it anyway, holding the glass with both hands.

“Do your clients usually cry on you?” Bash finally says, trying to make light of it.

Paul smiles, sitting down beside him again. “Sometimes. It’s not that uncommon. Sometimes I don’t even have sex with anyone. Sometimes they just pay me to talk.”

Bash snorts with laughter. “I can’t imagine wanting to have a deep conversation with someone for free, let alone paying them for it.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to get what you want for once,” Paul says carefully. “It’s easier for things to remain, you know, hypothetical.”

“Like hypothetical sex?”

“Yes, hypothetical sex with hypothetical men.”

Bash finishes the water and puts the glass down. Paul sweeps the tissues into a wastepaper basket and then goes and refills the glass.

“You know, Bash, you’re a handsome man,” Paul says. “You don’t need to pay people to have sex with you.”

Ah right. Payment.

“What would you know? Do you even _like_ guys?” Bash retorts.

“I like both,” Paul says simply. “It makes things easier.”

“Wait, are there some people who do this who don’t even like men? How can you have sex with someone you’re not attracted to?”

“It’s not ideal, but it’s possible. You’d know. Same way you have sex with your wife.” Paul replies.

Bash feels his eyes prickle again.

“Look,” Paul sighs, “I don’t want to leave you like this, but I’ve got a client booked tomorrow and I’ll need to get a bit of rest before. That one’s a full day boyfriend experience. We’ve got to go to the races and everything, and she _loves_ to bet.” He puts on the rest of his clothes, tying the buttons one-handed while picking up his jacket with the other. “You can put a cheque or cash for me in an envelope at the bar. I always give them a tip.”

“Can I see you again?” says Bash.

“Sure you can, you’re a good client - respectful, clean, doesn’t want to do anything too weird or tiring - ” Paul replies, “but I don’t think it’ll do you any good.” He sighs. “Think about what you want, and stay safe when you do it.” He pulls several condoms out of his breast pocket. “Don’t worry, I wore one, and I always get tested.”

The reality of that hits Bash like he’s been slapped.

“I did some stuff before with this one guy who died. Just oral. Am I going to get it too?”

“We’re not really sure yet,” Paul says. “But if you’re a professional, you’re always reading all the pamphlets down at Planned Parenthood. They say you’re not likely to get it from oral, but again, _stay safe. _Maybe get yourself tested. They’re pretty good in Vegas, I mean, they’ve seen everything, so they won’t be shocked who you are or what you did.”

There’s a knock at the door. Bash starts.

“Oh, it’s just the maid service,” says Paul. “I called them for you.”

He opens the door and a smiling woman pushing a trolley comes in. To Bash’s relief, she seems extremely unsurprised by the clothes on the floor, and the two men in the room. Bash wishes he’d stripped the bed before she came in, but he doesn’t know how to strip a bed and now doesn’t seem the right time to learn.

Paul gives the maid a tip.

“Take care of yourself,” he says to Bash, and then, while the maid is bent over picking up Bash’s shoes, Paul kisses him.

This time, he lets himself enjoy it.

**Author's Note:**

> When Bash cries to Debbie, I couldn't hear whether or not he said "I want to die" or "I don't want to die." In his case, either would have made sense for him to say. [subtitled as "I don't want to die.] This fic takes place after the events of the second-last episode, before the finale. 
> 
> I looked up some information about the AIDS crisis as it was in 1986 and as far as I could tell, the health advice had moved toward protected sex rather than "we don't know what the hell is happening." Still no good medication options.  
In many countries, sex workers and the LGBT community worked together to disseminate information about AIDS prevention to high-risk communities, and also lobbied governments to provide sexual education to all people, free condoms, needle exchanges and other prevention strategies. It might not have been exactly the same in the US (as these groups had their efforts actively suppressed by a conservative, unfeeling government) but it stands to reason that Paul, as a sex worker, would probably know more than most.


End file.
